When I was in my early twenties I had a stubborn chest infection that wouldn’t shift. My doctor decided I needed antibiotics, and as he wrote out the prescription I casually asked whether or not I’d be able to drink alcohol for the duration of the course.

Despite my tone of voice, I felt anything but casual. The idea of not being able to drink was not only unappealing to me but horrifying.

Alcohol was completely normalized in my world. Although my mother was teetotal, she was the only adult I knew who was. My father was a weekend binge drinker, as were all of his friends. In my younger years this was something that embarrassed me, but by the time I’d reached my twenties I’d begun to behave exactly the same way.

It was the mid-nineties in England and everything I did socially revolved around booze. From weekday pub lunches during my hour break, to week nights where we’d “just go for one” before getting the train home, wine was my way of feeling a sense of ease in social situations. It made everything brighter and more attractive. Including me.

Or so I thought.

The reality was that I was using alcohol as a prop. It offered me instant courage but it also led me to make poor choices, particularly as far as men were concerned.

My use of alcohol wasn’t unusual in the circles I moved in. Almost everyone I knew was drinking just as regularly as me. Oftentimes, more. It didn’t occur to me that there was any kind of a problem. Not when I put myself in dangerous situations, not when I could barely function the next day after a night out, and not even when I chose not to take a full course of antibiotics because doing so would interfere with my plans to party.

I continued to have a reckless relationship with alcohol throughout my twenties and early thirties. There was never a time when I socialized without drinking. Having so much wine on a Saturday night that I’d be rendered useless all day on Sunday was a regular occurrence. I’d even plan ahead by making sure I had hangover supplies in advance, knowing that I wouldn’t want to move the next day.

It wasn’t until I had a severe attack of pancreatitis that saw me seriously ill in hospital that I started to explore what a different lifestyle might look like.

To begin with, I wasn’t considering changing my consumption of alcohol, at least not past the three month period I’d been advised to avoid it for. But I did find myself questioning where I was in life and whether or not it was really where I wanted to be.

After a particularly challenging night in the hospital, where I’d had a long and painful journey to reach the bathroom at the other end of the ward, shuffling along with my IV stand beside me, I promised myself that I was going to create change in my life.

I wanted to reclaim my health. I wanted to embrace the adventures I’d never been bold enough to embark on. I wanted to stop feeling trapped in a life I was supposed to love, but that actually left me feeling unfulfilled and miserable.

Not long after leaving the hospital, I moved back in with my parents. I sold all my belongings. My car, my furniture, even some clothes. I paid off my debt and started saving. I was 36 and I was beginning again.

Once I had enough cash, I quit my job and took myself off to India for six months to volunteer and travel. I’d never done anything like it before. I’d never believed that I could. As I traveled, I tried to remember who I was before the world came along and showed me the mold I was supposed to fit into. And although I barely touched any alcohol during my travels, it was only temporary. It simply felt like a natural pause based on my new environment. On my return to England I picked the habit back up almost immediately.

In my late thirties there was a shift in how I used alcohol. Instead of drinking purely to get drunk, I began drinking to relax instead. I no longer felt as though I wanted or needed to drink to excess, but I couldn’t imagine not drinking at all.

Then, just as I turned 40, I left London and moved to New York. As anyone who’s experienced a big geographical move can likely attest, there’s a settling in period where things seem a little surreal and no real routine has yet been established.

In those early days I’d often have a glass of wine at home with my husband. As the days turned to weeks, and then months and years, this became a nightly habit. Even though my husband now rarely drank, I continued to have a glass every night with dinner.

I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. Plenty of people drank wine with their evening meal. I wasn’t getting drunk, I was barely feeling a buzz, so there was no cause for concern.

Except, I did feel concerned if I couldn’t have that one glass.

Occasionally we’d run out of wine, or we’d be out at an event where there wasn’t any alcohol. And on those evenings I’d feel irritable about missing out on my nightly ritual. I resented not being able to have My One Glass. Every time the troubling thought of what was behind that feeling began to float up in my mind, I’d quickly stuff it back down. I didn’t want to dissect why I wanted to drink, I simply wanted to be able to.

And then along came a pandemic.

The world was reeling and the liquor stores were closed. I tried to eke out the bottles of wine I had at home, still sticking to My One Glass but still not comfortable about considering the reality of no more glasses.

Whenever I saw social media posts from people who shared that they were no longer drinking, I felt a spark of something inside me. But I couldn’t yet name what that something was.

I kept telling myself that there didn’t have to be any long night of the soul or deep line of self-inquiry for me. After all, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d felt drunk. It had easily been a few years.

But that vague, niggling feeling persisted.

As a writer and a coach, I often encourage women to get curious about the story beneath the story. But what was my story? What was happening below the surface in my own life? And how could I look away while actively encouraging others to do the very opposite?

So I let curiosity lead me. I decided to see what it felt like not to drink during the week, limiting wine to weekends only. At first it felt strange and I felt somewhat on edge. There was a void. But I’d tell myself Friday wasn’t far away and I managed to stay on track.

Then I noticed that I was feeling resentful when Monday came back around. Just as I’d start to get in a rhythm, I’d have to switch back again. I was struggling to find my flow.

I had two options. I could either go back to My One Glass every night, or I could choose to have no glasses every night.

The fear I felt about choosing the latter option was the nudge I needed. I knew I owed it to myself to at least explore what was on the other side of that fear.

I didn’t mark the calendar. I didn’t make a note of the date. I didn’t post any kind of public announcement. I didn’t even make a definitive decision to never drink again, simply a quiet commitment to myself to be open to where this journey might take me.

And now it’s two and a half years later.

During that time I’ve had alcohol twice. Once was a glass or two at a rooftop gathering, and the other was a sip of my husband’s wine when we were out at an Italian restaurant.

After the initial strangeness that comes with changing a habit began to subside, I surprised myself by realizing I didn’t miss My One Glass anywhere near as much as I expected to. Much like after I’d given up smoking in my thirties, there was the occasional feeling of restlessness. My brain, wanting the reassuring presence of the familiar would signal that something was missing.

I let myself sit in that space of discomfort. Not judging myself for any thoughts or feelings that came up, but not instantly reacting to them either.

There was no big aha moment. No grand “I’m sober” reveal. Not because I think any less at all of anyone who shares those moments, but simply because I wasn’t quite sure where my path was taking me.

I’m still not certain.

All I know is that, today, I don’t feel as though there’s space in my life for alcohol. Not even that “harmless” one glass.

During these months of sobriety I’ve also survived Covid-19 and a brain tumor, so it’s been a time of recovery in more ways than one. I’m not declaring that I’ll never drink again, but I do know that alcohol won’t take me closer to where, or who, I want to be.

I feel… free. Liberated. Knowing that every decision I make is mine and not impaired by any other substance. I don’t have to worry about stopping off on my way home to pick up a bottle, or forgetting and then coercing Leon to pick one up for me. Life is easier in that regard.

So here I am. Still on an unknown path that’s unfolding in front of me, step by step. (Oh I know, but all the best cliches are true.)

Maybe there are parts of my journey you can relate to. Or, perhaps your own experience is wildly different. Isn’t is beautiful that there’s space in the world for all of our truths?

I’m sharing this with you because that’s what I do. I tell the truth about what it’s like to be a woman in the messy middle of her life, and hopefully it will help you feel less alone as you find your own way forward in yours.

But, just in case you’re about to scroll away now, thinking that of course you couldn’t make a change like this in your life. That you couldn’t disentangle yourself from a stubborn habit that marks your days and has somehow woven itself into your identity. That it’s somehow different for me because [insert assumption here]. Well, then I’d love to invite you to reconsider that thought. To notice the barely-there spark inside you. To get curious about your own story beneath the story. To sit for the briefest moment in the discomfort of What If and try to catch a tiny glimpse of what could be.

We’re here. We’re alive. And all things are still possible.

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